By Scott Dodgson
I woke late to the sounds of baggage being shuffled across the deck above my head. Laura came into my cabin and announced that Val and Nancy needed a ride to shore to catch the next ferry to Athens. Beth was staying aboard for a while. I wasn’t aware of the dynamics going on between the girls. I staggered out of bed and into the galley for a cup of coffee. Beth and Laura were on deck pleading with them to stay and complete the journey to Rhodes. Before I took my first sip Laura came down and angrily insisted they wanted to go right now. As a Charter boat captain and sailor I never pretend to know much about the dynamics of the passengers except when it may effect the performance and safety of my vessel. I took Val and Nancy to the quay. They thanked me for the ride and wished me luck. Nancy gave me a perfidious glance as I pulled away from the quay that seemed to indicate I was at fault for leaving them on Ios. I’ve been rightfully accused of being at fault for a host of transgressions when it comes to women, but this particular circumstance left me puzzled. After hoisting the dinghy motor onto the deck and setting a tow line for the dinghy I was anxious to get under way. I had one more over night sail before arriving in Rhodes, then three days to prepare for the charter and make some minor repairs and Laura and I would be off for a three week charter along the beautiful Blue Coast of Turkey. Nothing seems to freak the crew out more as when the captain starts the motor and starts lifting the anchor to leave. I suppose the abruptness is akin to moving out of your house, although in this case the house was moving. I’ve learned over the years not to ask questions about mysterious events/coming and goings until the subject is brought up by the participants. My singular purpose was sailing my yacht. When night fell we were under full sail with a fifteen knot wind off the beam in choppy disorganized seas. Except for the random splash of spray off the hull it was a comfortable sail. I told the girls to give me three hours of sleep. I would take the dog watch from mid-night until we arrived in Rhodes roughly at nine in the morning. I woke at eleven thirty. Captains have a strange but accurate clock in their heads when it comes to sailing and watches. I could hear the girls talking feverishly albeit muffled. When I heard sobbing my first thought was are they paying attention? My second thought or thoughts was I had one girl, Laura who was preparing to break my heart, a second, Beth who was trying to find something in her heart for me and my boat who was entirely loyal and gave me as much love as I could give her.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Ios, The Disney World of Hedonism
By Scott Dodgson
We took a vote on which island to stop for a night before pushing onto Ios the Disney World of Hedonism. We crossed the Ionian Sea with fair winds and smooth seas. I opted to sail below the Peloponnesian coast as there were reports that the Corinthian canal was closed for repairs. With my schedule a day ahead schedule and my new mates occupied with sunning themselves I finally had a little latitude. Ios lies between Santorini and Naxos. A thirty mile deviation from my direct rhomb line to Rhodes Greece was acceptable since the weather report was calling for fifteen to twenty mile an hour from the Northeast winds for the next week. The Cyclades can be the windiest section of the Aegean Sea imaginable this was good news and should have calmed me down except for the fact that Laura seemed aloof. During the crossing Laura and I split the watches so we had little time alone. I shared the first half of the watch with Beth, the paralegal from LA and the second half with Val, the Canadian Law Student. Standing watch through the night can be pretty boring so there was plenty of time to talk with both girls. Nancy had no desire to work on the yacht and didn’t seem a factor in Laura’s plot to replace herself. I liked both girls but I was quick to dismiss Beth. She got upset when someone, me I think, ate one of her yogurts. Since I had loaded the fridge with food, and let the girls drink as much as they wanted I was surprised by her selfishness. This wasn’t going to work for me. Val on the other hand was a joy to be with. She was smart and excellent conversationalist. I learned the reason she was traveling during a break from law school. She had breast cancer. She had a mastectomy done on both breasts. The stress and the fear of dying had lead her to so the world. Luckily for her the cancer was completely gone. We talked a lot about the psychological effects. She was open, honest and very brave. I admired her greatly. On an unspoken level she seemed to revel in the sexual energy that passed between us. It was apparent to everyone on board. We made Ios in the morning. The entrance to the harbor can easily be missed as it is a small opening between rather tall rocky hills. We anchored off the beach careful not to be anywhere near the ferry dock. Greek ferries will run you over without a thought or an apology. I launched the dinghy off the foredeck for the first time since Trinidad. That evening we all went to Ios. Ios is a backpacker heaven. The little town on top of the mountain is filled with bars. It is perpetual frat party. There were bodies of drunken college students everywhere. Sun tanned boys and girls dancing to techo rock. Plenty of public love making, shirtless boys and girls and everything you could imagine. The only one of our group that seemed to really enjoy herself was Beth. I think Ios was her Disney World. Boys flocked to her one after another and sometimes three and four at a time. We pushed through the crowds past the white washed walls back down to the harbor. It was two o’clock in the morning and Beth was upset we were calling it a night. Val and Laura were relieved to be out of the chaos. Nancy was coy.
We took a vote on which island to stop for a night before pushing onto Ios the Disney World of Hedonism. We crossed the Ionian Sea with fair winds and smooth seas. I opted to sail below the Peloponnesian coast as there were reports that the Corinthian canal was closed for repairs. With my schedule a day ahead schedule and my new mates occupied with sunning themselves I finally had a little latitude. Ios lies between Santorini and Naxos. A thirty mile deviation from my direct rhomb line to Rhodes Greece was acceptable since the weather report was calling for fifteen to twenty mile an hour from the Northeast winds for the next week. The Cyclades can be the windiest section of the Aegean Sea imaginable this was good news and should have calmed me down except for the fact that Laura seemed aloof. During the crossing Laura and I split the watches so we had little time alone. I shared the first half of the watch with Beth, the paralegal from LA and the second half with Val, the Canadian Law Student. Standing watch through the night can be pretty boring so there was plenty of time to talk with both girls. Nancy had no desire to work on the yacht and didn’t seem a factor in Laura’s plot to replace herself. I liked both girls but I was quick to dismiss Beth. She got upset when someone, me I think, ate one of her yogurts. Since I had loaded the fridge with food, and let the girls drink as much as they wanted I was surprised by her selfishness. This wasn’t going to work for me. Val on the other hand was a joy to be with. She was smart and excellent conversationalist. I learned the reason she was traveling during a break from law school. She had breast cancer. She had a mastectomy done on both breasts. The stress and the fear of dying had lead her to so the world. Luckily for her the cancer was completely gone. We talked a lot about the psychological effects. She was open, honest and very brave. I admired her greatly. On an unspoken level she seemed to revel in the sexual energy that passed between us. It was apparent to everyone on board. We made Ios in the morning. The entrance to the harbor can easily be missed as it is a small opening between rather tall rocky hills. We anchored off the beach careful not to be anywhere near the ferry dock. Greek ferries will run you over without a thought or an apology. I launched the dinghy off the foredeck for the first time since Trinidad. That evening we all went to Ios. Ios is a backpacker heaven. The little town on top of the mountain is filled with bars. It is perpetual frat party. There were bodies of drunken college students everywhere. Sun tanned boys and girls dancing to techo rock. Plenty of public love making, shirtless boys and girls and everything you could imagine. The only one of our group that seemed to really enjoy herself was Beth. I think Ios was her Disney World. Boys flocked to her one after another and sometimes three and four at a time. We pushed through the crowds past the white washed walls back down to the harbor. It was two o’clock in the morning and Beth was upset we were calling it a night. Val and Laura were relieved to be out of the chaos. Nancy was coy.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Leaving Italy
By Scott Dodgson
In the bright sunshine of the morning I prepared my yacht to leave Palermo. As I’ve written before Med mooring takes preparation and coordination to smoothly bring your yacht stern to the quay. Leaving the dock takes preparation especially if there isn’t a soul around to help. I have four lines coming off the stern; two spring lines and two stern lines. The spring lines are crossed so the vessel won’t sway in the slip. All the tension in the lines is created by the anchor firmly bedded in the basin of the harbor. Anchor, yacht, lines quay pulled taunt like the string in a bow. The first step is to take the stern lines; those are the lines coming straight off the corners of the yacht directly to the bollards on the dock. I loosen one line at a time and run the loop around the bollard and back to the yacht. A crew member can free the bitterend of the line and pull it on board without having to get off the yacht. With both stern lines ready, I take off the spring lines. Using the tension in the anchor and rode, once the lines are released and drawn back onto the yacht the boat will move forward. With Laura standing on the bow, her foot on the switch for the windless she waited for my signal to begin pulling up the anchor. A couple of years earlier I installed a chain washing system on the bow. As most boaters know there is nothing like the smell of anchor chain after it has been sitting on the bottom in gnarly, polluted harbor mud especially when the crew quarters share the anchor locker. By using the power supply to the windless, I installed a high pressure pump inside the locker. Using salt water, fresh water would be ideal, but who wants to waste that much fresh water when salt water will do the job I ran a half inch hose with a fire nozzle under the bow pointing it on an angle downward to blow the mud and crap off the chain and anchor. Once the windless switch was turned on the car wash was turned on. We glided forward with the natural tension pulling up the anchor as we moved forward. I never used the power of the motor unless I was fighting a strong wind. Laura signaled with her arm mimicking the angle of the chain. Once we moved over the anchor it dislodged from its muddy grave and began to come home. Once she could see the anchor near the surface she signaled that we could go. Dragging the anchor near the surface slowly for a few seconds is enough to drop shovelfuls of foul mud back to the bottom. With the anchor secure and the windless turned off, she directed her friends and my new crew to stow the fenders and lines. If this was an audition for her replacement Val and Beth would have been tied for eagerness. Nancy wasn’t in the running. She was more worried about getting sea sick. Next port of call Greece.
In the bright sunshine of the morning I prepared my yacht to leave Palermo. As I’ve written before Med mooring takes preparation and coordination to smoothly bring your yacht stern to the quay. Leaving the dock takes preparation especially if there isn’t a soul around to help. I have four lines coming off the stern; two spring lines and two stern lines. The spring lines are crossed so the vessel won’t sway in the slip. All the tension in the lines is created by the anchor firmly bedded in the basin of the harbor. Anchor, yacht, lines quay pulled taunt like the string in a bow. The first step is to take the stern lines; those are the lines coming straight off the corners of the yacht directly to the bollards on the dock. I loosen one line at a time and run the loop around the bollard and back to the yacht. A crew member can free the bitterend of the line and pull it on board without having to get off the yacht. With both stern lines ready, I take off the spring lines. Using the tension in the anchor and rode, once the lines are released and drawn back onto the yacht the boat will move forward. With Laura standing on the bow, her foot on the switch for the windless she waited for my signal to begin pulling up the anchor. A couple of years earlier I installed a chain washing system on the bow. As most boaters know there is nothing like the smell of anchor chain after it has been sitting on the bottom in gnarly, polluted harbor mud especially when the crew quarters share the anchor locker. By using the power supply to the windless, I installed a high pressure pump inside the locker. Using salt water, fresh water would be ideal, but who wants to waste that much fresh water when salt water will do the job I ran a half inch hose with a fire nozzle under the bow pointing it on an angle downward to blow the mud and crap off the chain and anchor. Once the windless switch was turned on the car wash was turned on. We glided forward with the natural tension pulling up the anchor as we moved forward. I never used the power of the motor unless I was fighting a strong wind. Laura signaled with her arm mimicking the angle of the chain. Once we moved over the anchor it dislodged from its muddy grave and began to come home. Once she could see the anchor near the surface she signaled that we could go. Dragging the anchor near the surface slowly for a few seconds is enough to drop shovelfuls of foul mud back to the bottom. With the anchor secure and the windless turned off, she directed her friends and my new crew to stow the fenders and lines. If this was an audition for her replacement Val and Beth would have been tied for eagerness. Nancy wasn’t in the running. She was more worried about getting sea sick. Next port of call Greece.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shooting Fantasies
By Scott Dodgson
The trouble with male fantasies is they sometimes come true. Four beautiful woman, a yacht, a captian, under the Sicilian moon, what could go wrong?
I led Laura and her friends back to my boat. Laura took charge of getting the girls settled while I fixed dinner. She made the perfunctory announcements about “No Tampons in the toilets” “Conserve water” “Stow your belongs well so they don’t fly around when we sail” etc. They decided to take showers before dinner. The girls were forward in two state rooms. Laura breezed past me into the master suite seemingly happy to be home. She offered to help cook dinner. I told her I was making something simple and for her to relax. She disappeared to take a shower. I made a mixed green salad with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and spring onions. I put a dollop pickled zucchini relish I bought in the Vaccarro market in Palermo and a second dollop pickled mushrooms. I prepared a selection of local cheeses on a separate breadboard and sliced a fresh baguette for the bread basket. I couldn’t help but think I was preparing a meal of seduction. The main course would be grilled swordfish and sweet potatoes sautéed in butter and brown sugar then flambéed with sweet banana rum I brought from the Caribbean. I decanted my “Geo” wine into a clay pitcher and set the table outside in the cockpit. With the table leaves open I could comfortable seat eight grownups, ten in a pinch. A note to those struggling to find the right lighting for their cockpit table: Take a cheap straw hat string a 12volt light into the top a run the wire to your power supply on your helm. It is cheap and casts a nice romantic light over the table. The first to emerge from her cabin was Nancy. She was a high school friend from North Dakota and a full blooded Sioux Indian. This was her first experience on a boat and was in desperate need of fresh air. I offered her a glass of wine and directed her to the cockpit table outside to gather herself. She was worried about getting sea sick as she felt the boat was moving. I explained sea sickness is normal for most people. The inner ear and the eye play tricks on your system. I offered her a ginger cookie to help settle the imbalance. When we sail I would give her all the motion sickness products, patches, pills and wrist bands, but ginger was the best along with getting used to the motion. She would be fine. The second person to emerge from her cabin was Beth. She was a paralegal from LA. She was a very pretty girl in her early twenties. I offered her a glass of wine, while she complimented me on my yacht, the shower and the surprising luxury of the vessel. I got the very real sense she was coming on to me when she asked about becoming crew. The third person to emerge was Val. She was a law student from Canada that the girls had joined in their back packing trek through Europe. She was beautiful, funny and very smart. I will admit the longer I’m alive the less I think I know about women especially what turns them on, but there is a certain strange and wonderful transformation that takes place in otherwise prudent women that unleashes their sexuality. Is it the combination of freedom and comfort of the yacht or is it the tactile senses of the boat’s motion and power under the wind overwhelming them? I don’t know, but Val exuded an unbridled sexual energy that I thought she would burst. When she went upstairs I went into the owner’s suite to check on Laura. I found her lying on the bed naked and still wet from her shower sound to sleep. I kissed her and asked if she wanted to join us for dinner. She opened her eyes and smiled. I could see in her eyes she wanted to talk seriously, but the laughter of the girls upstairs broke the moment. I had the stabbing feeling that she was afraid of breaking my heart and upstairs sat her replacement.
The trouble with male fantasies is they sometimes come true. Four beautiful woman, a yacht, a captian, under the Sicilian moon, what could go wrong?
I led Laura and her friends back to my boat. Laura took charge of getting the girls settled while I fixed dinner. She made the perfunctory announcements about “No Tampons in the toilets” “Conserve water” “Stow your belongs well so they don’t fly around when we sail” etc. They decided to take showers before dinner. The girls were forward in two state rooms. Laura breezed past me into the master suite seemingly happy to be home. She offered to help cook dinner. I told her I was making something simple and for her to relax. She disappeared to take a shower. I made a mixed green salad with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and spring onions. I put a dollop pickled zucchini relish I bought in the Vaccarro market in Palermo and a second dollop pickled mushrooms. I prepared a selection of local cheeses on a separate breadboard and sliced a fresh baguette for the bread basket. I couldn’t help but think I was preparing a meal of seduction. The main course would be grilled swordfish and sweet potatoes sautéed in butter and brown sugar then flambéed with sweet banana rum I brought from the Caribbean. I decanted my “Geo” wine into a clay pitcher and set the table outside in the cockpit. With the table leaves open I could comfortable seat eight grownups, ten in a pinch. A note to those struggling to find the right lighting for their cockpit table: Take a cheap straw hat string a 12volt light into the top a run the wire to your power supply on your helm. It is cheap and casts a nice romantic light over the table. The first to emerge from her cabin was Nancy. She was a high school friend from North Dakota and a full blooded Sioux Indian. This was her first experience on a boat and was in desperate need of fresh air. I offered her a glass of wine and directed her to the cockpit table outside to gather herself. She was worried about getting sea sick as she felt the boat was moving. I explained sea sickness is normal for most people. The inner ear and the eye play tricks on your system. I offered her a ginger cookie to help settle the imbalance. When we sail I would give her all the motion sickness products, patches, pills and wrist bands, but ginger was the best along with getting used to the motion. She would be fine. The second person to emerge from her cabin was Beth. She was a paralegal from LA. She was a very pretty girl in her early twenties. I offered her a glass of wine, while she complimented me on my yacht, the shower and the surprising luxury of the vessel. I got the very real sense she was coming on to me when she asked about becoming crew. The third person to emerge was Val. She was a law student from Canada that the girls had joined in their back packing trek through Europe. She was beautiful, funny and very smart. I will admit the longer I’m alive the less I think I know about women especially what turns them on, but there is a certain strange and wonderful transformation that takes place in otherwise prudent women that unleashes their sexuality. Is it the combination of freedom and comfort of the yacht or is it the tactile senses of the boat’s motion and power under the wind overwhelming them? I don’t know, but Val exuded an unbridled sexual energy that I thought she would burst. When she went upstairs I went into the owner’s suite to check on Laura. I found her lying on the bed naked and still wet from her shower sound to sleep. I kissed her and asked if she wanted to join us for dinner. She opened her eyes and smiled. I could see in her eyes she wanted to talk seriously, but the laughter of the girls upstairs broke the moment. I had the stabbing feeling that she was afraid of breaking my heart and upstairs sat her replacement.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Victim of Style
By Scott Dodgson
The evening sun illuminated the mountains surrounding Palermo with dazzling pinks and warm hues of ochre. Most of Palermo’s citizens were waking after an afternoon nap to begin the second part of their day. When the cool vespers of sea air rolled over the ancient bone dry stones under the starry night the streets filled with locals taking a stroll or visiting friends. It was a time when the hustle of modern life gave way to relaxed living. The restaurants and cafes filled with patrons, drinking from small glasses of local wines, eating from an endless stream of pasta plate, breaking loafs of bread and sharing in the pitched excitement of Italian conversation. I navigated my way through the streets to the central train station train to meet my mate and her friends. The central train station looks more like a palatial palace than a train station, with its well kept gardens, polished statues and bubbling fountains. I’ve always harbored the idea of writing a book about train stations and the stories of the people coming and going from these beautiful hubs of transportation, but that is for another time and place. The train from Rome was late. I’m sure anyone having traveled in Italy would not be surprised. I was left with plenty of time to watch the crowd. I should point out I’m not much of a clothes hog, but leaning against a marble column dressed in Khaki pants, a white Polo shirt and a pair of well broken in Sperry deck shoes I felt envious. A dear Italian friend once explained there are two constants in an Italian male’s life, his mother and his style both designed to make him a willing victim. I, on the other hand seemed to stand out in this crowd as an American. The men wore a variety of cotton finely finished cotton shirts and double pleated muslin pants and fine leather shoes seemingly accented by a light but colorful sweater draped casually over their shoulders. My ruminations were interrupted when the loud speakers announced the arrival of the train from Rome. Laura pushed through the sea of travelers with her three girlfriends following behind. I waved to her and called out her name. In a strange moment of self awareness I looked over and caught the eye of a finely dressed Italian couple. The woman seemed to flash a small smile. In that moment I came to understand Mona Lisa's smile. They possessed a sublime understanding of femininity and the power to make men willing victims of adoration. We hugged and kissed, but I knew deep down my needs would never be met without a change in style.
Buy my novel The Mental Hygientist.
The evening sun illuminated the mountains surrounding Palermo with dazzling pinks and warm hues of ochre. Most of Palermo’s citizens were waking after an afternoon nap to begin the second part of their day. When the cool vespers of sea air rolled over the ancient bone dry stones under the starry night the streets filled with locals taking a stroll or visiting friends. It was a time when the hustle of modern life gave way to relaxed living. The restaurants and cafes filled with patrons, drinking from small glasses of local wines, eating from an endless stream of pasta plate, breaking loafs of bread and sharing in the pitched excitement of Italian conversation. I navigated my way through the streets to the central train station train to meet my mate and her friends. The central train station looks more like a palatial palace than a train station, with its well kept gardens, polished statues and bubbling fountains. I’ve always harbored the idea of writing a book about train stations and the stories of the people coming and going from these beautiful hubs of transportation, but that is for another time and place. The train from Rome was late. I’m sure anyone having traveled in Italy would not be surprised. I was left with plenty of time to watch the crowd. I should point out I’m not much of a clothes hog, but leaning against a marble column dressed in Khaki pants, a white Polo shirt and a pair of well broken in Sperry deck shoes I felt envious. A dear Italian friend once explained there are two constants in an Italian male’s life, his mother and his style both designed to make him a willing victim. I, on the other hand seemed to stand out in this crowd as an American. The men wore a variety of cotton finely finished cotton shirts and double pleated muslin pants and fine leather shoes seemingly accented by a light but colorful sweater draped casually over their shoulders. My ruminations were interrupted when the loud speakers announced the arrival of the train from Rome. Laura pushed through the sea of travelers with her three girlfriends following behind. I waved to her and called out her name. In a strange moment of self awareness I looked over and caught the eye of a finely dressed Italian couple. The woman seemed to flash a small smile. In that moment I came to understand Mona Lisa's smile. They possessed a sublime understanding of femininity and the power to make men willing victims of adoration. We hugged and kissed, but I knew deep down my needs would never be met without a change in style.
Buy my novel The Mental Hygientist.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Love Shopping
By Scott Dodgson
I rose early with anticipation that Laura (chef/mate/girlfriend) and her friends would be arriving by train from Rome in the evening. With the long cold hardship of Atlantic sailing a distant memory and the troubling crew long gone I was excited to have my most important and trusted crew member returning. Since leaving Trinidad four days behind schedule I was now two days ahead of schedule with only two more seas to cross and a mere 1200 nm to go. I felt good. The weather was warm. The skies were clear and had a full day to enjoy Palermo. The plan was to leave the next day travel through the Straits of Massena enter the Ionian Sea and make the western tip of the Peloponnesus in three days. From there weave my way down through the Greek islands to Rhodes, where I would have a couple of days to resupply and clean-up before embarking on a rather luxuriant sail up and down the coast of Turkey. Yesterday I related a story to Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, about the arduous nature of shopping for a charter. In particular carrying bags of groceries in the hot climate back and forth from the shops to the boat, when I emerged from down below I found a ten year old boy named Geo sitting in a wheel barrel behind my yacht. He jumped up and presented himself in a rather formal fashion as my guide and grocery carrier. He looked like he had just come from central casting of a Fellini movie. He wore torn shorts and a dirty white T-shirt a size to small, but he radiated happiness. My general attitude towards kids is strained tolerance. I’d rather not have to deal with them at all, but I knew this situation was a thoughtful gift and probably had serious economic repercussions. So I invited Geo on board and gave him one of my crew polo shirts, a hat and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses a richer American child had left on the boat. Geo was very happy. Scorsese would love this image of the big American captain walking past the Uzi carrying police guarding the entrance to the quay followed by a little waif pulling a wheel barrow. We crossed the busy Via Roma Avenue, when Geo asked if I wanted sex. He pointed out several ladies of the night lining the street at seven on a Sunday morning. It was clear Geo was going to be a full service guide. We walked through the tight little streets of the old city until we reached the Vucciria market. As I have written before this is one of the great markets on all of Europe. It has been extensively written about and filmed so I’ll refer you to this link. Geo and I filled up his wheel barrow with fresh vegetables, cured hams, four different flavored olive oils, cheese, a couple of chickens and six large swordfish steaks sliced before my eyes off a one hundred pound swordfish. With the wheelbarrow full and poor little Geo straining to push it we set off to return to the boat. Geo was giving it his all when I finally asked where I could buy some wine. “Vino?” Si! He knew just the place. He hopped into the wheel barrow hanging his feet over the front edge and directed me to turn right. Was looking for vino an indication of my hidden conviviality thus making it okay to stop working and let the big guy push the wheel barrow? So I picked up the handles to the wheel barrow and turned right. Geo chattered in Italian all the way along, until we came to a building that looked as if it were bombed yesterday. Geo opened a steel door in the basement and yelled. A very old bent over man emerged from the darkness with a glass of wine. He handed it to me and I took a sip. This was homemade wine, but tasted as if it were made by the finest of vintners. Bright red, fruity, cherry and apricot, with a hint of licorice this was good wine! It was even better with the price of fifty cents a liter. The old man, it turns out was Geo’s grandfather. You could see the love between them. I paid for two jugs or four gallons. So we set off for the boat, me pushing the happy Geo in a full wheelbarrow and his grandfather following behind carrying two jugs of wine balanced on a pole across his slumping shoulders. I unloaded the wheelbarrow, stowed the shopping and gave Geo his pay for the morning. I definitively over paid, but watching Geo pushing his grandfather in the wheelbarrow home was worth every cent.
http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/europe/italy/sicily/palermo/overview.html?inline=nyt-geo
http://www.eurail.com/
http://www.bestofsicily.com/wine.htm
I rose early with anticipation that Laura (chef/mate/girlfriend) and her friends would be arriving by train from Rome in the evening. With the long cold hardship of Atlantic sailing a distant memory and the troubling crew long gone I was excited to have my most important and trusted crew member returning. Since leaving Trinidad four days behind schedule I was now two days ahead of schedule with only two more seas to cross and a mere 1200 nm to go. I felt good. The weather was warm. The skies were clear and had a full day to enjoy Palermo. The plan was to leave the next day travel through the Straits of Massena enter the Ionian Sea and make the western tip of the Peloponnesus in three days. From there weave my way down through the Greek islands to Rhodes, where I would have a couple of days to resupply and clean-up before embarking on a rather luxuriant sail up and down the coast of Turkey. Yesterday I related a story to Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, about the arduous nature of shopping for a charter. In particular carrying bags of groceries in the hot climate back and forth from the shops to the boat, when I emerged from down below I found a ten year old boy named Geo sitting in a wheel barrel behind my yacht. He jumped up and presented himself in a rather formal fashion as my guide and grocery carrier. He looked like he had just come from central casting of a Fellini movie. He wore torn shorts and a dirty white T-shirt a size to small, but he radiated happiness. My general attitude towards kids is strained tolerance. I’d rather not have to deal with them at all, but I knew this situation was a thoughtful gift and probably had serious economic repercussions. So I invited Geo on board and gave him one of my crew polo shirts, a hat and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses a richer American child had left on the boat. Geo was very happy. Scorsese would love this image of the big American captain walking past the Uzi carrying police guarding the entrance to the quay followed by a little waif pulling a wheel barrow. We crossed the busy Via Roma Avenue, when Geo asked if I wanted sex. He pointed out several ladies of the night lining the street at seven on a Sunday morning. It was clear Geo was going to be a full service guide. We walked through the tight little streets of the old city until we reached the Vucciria market. As I have written before this is one of the great markets on all of Europe. It has been extensively written about and filmed so I’ll refer you to this link. Geo and I filled up his wheel barrow with fresh vegetables, cured hams, four different flavored olive oils, cheese, a couple of chickens and six large swordfish steaks sliced before my eyes off a one hundred pound swordfish. With the wheelbarrow full and poor little Geo straining to push it we set off to return to the boat. Geo was giving it his all when I finally asked where I could buy some wine. “Vino?” Si! He knew just the place. He hopped into the wheel barrow hanging his feet over the front edge and directed me to turn right. Was looking for vino an indication of my hidden conviviality thus making it okay to stop working and let the big guy push the wheel barrow? So I picked up the handles to the wheel barrow and turned right. Geo chattered in Italian all the way along, until we came to a building that looked as if it were bombed yesterday. Geo opened a steel door in the basement and yelled. A very old bent over man emerged from the darkness with a glass of wine. He handed it to me and I took a sip. This was homemade wine, but tasted as if it were made by the finest of vintners. Bright red, fruity, cherry and apricot, with a hint of licorice this was good wine! It was even better with the price of fifty cents a liter. The old man, it turns out was Geo’s grandfather. You could see the love between them. I paid for two jugs or four gallons. So we set off for the boat, me pushing the happy Geo in a full wheelbarrow and his grandfather following behind carrying two jugs of wine balanced on a pole across his slumping shoulders. I unloaded the wheelbarrow, stowed the shopping and gave Geo his pay for the morning. I definitively over paid, but watching Geo pushing his grandfather in the wheelbarrow home was worth every cent.
http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/europe/italy/sicily/palermo/overview.html?inline=nyt-geo
http://www.eurail.com/
http://www.bestofsicily.com/wine.htm
Friday, May 7, 2010
Stop For Beauty
By Scott Dodgson
There are two great aspects about sailing: Sailing and enjoying the destination you sailed too. Personally I find going out into the bay and sailing around for an afternoon boring. I love sailing, but I need a destination. Sicily is the ultimate destination. Forget about their reputation for crime. Most of the stories along with the movies mask the warm and generous people of Sicily. Don’t get me wrong, there is petty crime and until recently a war between the people and the mafia which seems to have settled down, Sicily is wonderful and should be at the top of your list for vacations. I found the fuel dock and settled in for a two day stay. Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, went beyond simply helpful and invited me into his family. I bought five hundred dollars of fuel and paid in dollars. This is pre-Euro when every merchant seems to have his finger on the currency exchange. If played right Carlos could make an extra five to ten percent on the dollars. With this unspoken advantage to Carlos, he generously let me stay on his dock for free. I wanted to check in with the Port Captain and get my papers stamped making me legal. Carlos insisted I didn’t have to anything, but as I explained I would get into trouble down the road if I didn’t have the necessary stamps. We piled into his Mercedes and sped around the port. He pointed out all the important sites of Palermo, both new and old. At the Port Captain’s office Carlos introduced me to his cousin, the Port Captain. We shared a coffee. When I asked about the papers his cousin said, “Why? Everyone in Sicily has a brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, sister in America. We even celebrate thanksgiving! Sicily is the fifty first state of America!” He stamped my documents reluctantly but with a smile. Carlos took me by the train station a few blocks from my yacht to show me where I would meet Laura and her friends. There is a grand circle around a huge ornate fountain. The traffic is chaotic, aggressive and loud; lots of horns, arm waving and screaming. I saw an old woman attempting to cross the street. The racing cars nearly killed her several times within seconds. Carlos nearly hit her. Then I saw one of the most amazing events I’ve ever seen. A beautiful statuesque, Sophia Loren look alike, wearing a large hat sunglasses and high heels stood into the street without looking causing the traffic to skid to a halt as if Moses were parting the Red Sea or in the case the traffic of Palermo. The tones of the horns turned from aggravated to adoring. Carlos stopped and said, “Bella. Bella. We stop for beauty in Italy.” Welcome to Sicily.
There are two great aspects about sailing: Sailing and enjoying the destination you sailed too. Personally I find going out into the bay and sailing around for an afternoon boring. I love sailing, but I need a destination. Sicily is the ultimate destination. Forget about their reputation for crime. Most of the stories along with the movies mask the warm and generous people of Sicily. Don’t get me wrong, there is petty crime and until recently a war between the people and the mafia which seems to have settled down, Sicily is wonderful and should be at the top of your list for vacations. I found the fuel dock and settled in for a two day stay. Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, went beyond simply helpful and invited me into his family. I bought five hundred dollars of fuel and paid in dollars. This is pre-Euro when every merchant seems to have his finger on the currency exchange. If played right Carlos could make an extra five to ten percent on the dollars. With this unspoken advantage to Carlos, he generously let me stay on his dock for free. I wanted to check in with the Port Captain and get my papers stamped making me legal. Carlos insisted I didn’t have to anything, but as I explained I would get into trouble down the road if I didn’t have the necessary stamps. We piled into his Mercedes and sped around the port. He pointed out all the important sites of Palermo, both new and old. At the Port Captain’s office Carlos introduced me to his cousin, the Port Captain. We shared a coffee. When I asked about the papers his cousin said, “Why? Everyone in Sicily has a brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, sister in America. We even celebrate thanksgiving! Sicily is the fifty first state of America!” He stamped my documents reluctantly but with a smile. Carlos took me by the train station a few blocks from my yacht to show me where I would meet Laura and her friends. There is a grand circle around a huge ornate fountain. The traffic is chaotic, aggressive and loud; lots of horns, arm waving and screaming. I saw an old woman attempting to cross the street. The racing cars nearly killed her several times within seconds. Carlos nearly hit her. Then I saw one of the most amazing events I’ve ever seen. A beautiful statuesque, Sophia Loren look alike, wearing a large hat sunglasses and high heels stood into the street without looking causing the traffic to skid to a halt as if Moses were parting the Red Sea or in the case the traffic of Palermo. The tones of the horns turned from aggravated to adoring. Carlos stopped and said, “Bella. Bella. We stop for beauty in Italy.” Welcome to Sicily.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Target Practice
I headed east under grey skies free off the machinations of amateur and undisciplined crew. The sea was soft and murky. The wind moved at a barely discernable five knots from the north. It was just enough to keep the main and mizzen full, but not enough to keep the 150 Genoa from collapsing and filling with an awkward thud. The frantic pressing forward to reach Greece and pick up my charter gave way to gentle acquiesce of a turtle’s never ending pace. Before leaving I contacted my Chef/mate girlfriend Laura. She was back packing with two girlfriends through Europe while I made the crossing. We would meet in Palermo Italy in four days. To say the yachting world is a man’s world would be an understatement, but Laura with her beauty, genuine smile, and vivacious personality fitting into this world and its demands was simply natural. She made life fun and hardship a joke. My guests loved her cooking. She was in fact better at chartering and entertaining than I. Over the last two years she carried the brut of entertaining guests. Our team work was flawless. While attending to my duties as a captain, sailing and maintenance, she carried on with the small talk. She made friends easily. Every evening after dinner I would appear in the cockpit with the guests and do what I like to think of as performance art. I would tell stories. When the final story had been told, the last of the dishes and brandy glasses cleared, and the guests stumbled off to their cabins to sleep we would retire to our cabin and make love. I was in love. I was deeply in love. I had two more days of sailing then two days of waiting then I could pick up my beautiful dream come true. I was nestled into the cockpit with a clear view of the sea thinking and yearning over our rendezvous when I spotted a yellow light directly on my course. I grabbed my binoculars and zoomed on the light. At first I thought it was a barge, but I couldn’t see the tug’s tree of lights. Could it be a barge just floating alone in the sea? I checked my book on navigation lights. If this had been a question on the captain’s examine I surely would have gotten it wrong. I altered course. Then searching through all the pages of arcane but important information I found that a submarine when on the surface was only required to have a yellow light. The closer I got I made out sub’s tower. There were no markings. I waved to them as I passed. Brilliant a sub, one more interesting if not obscure sighting in the world of shipping and navigation added to my list. So I went back to pining and dreaming. The next day I was dozing in the cockpit. The sun warmed my face and my dreams about seeing Laura again grew into full blown fantasy. The submarine surfaced to my port scaring the shit at of me. What they did they want? They hung around for thirty minutes. I called them on the radio. No answer. Then they slipped beneath the surface of the sea. The next night I caught site of the yellow light following my course. Honestly, I found it unnerving. My dreams about Laura turned into questions about her commitment to me. Maybe she found a boyfriend on her journey. I imagined some suave Frenchman with whose only attributes were my flaws, plus the newness of her adventure. The next day I was sailing down the coast of Sicily just minutes from the commercial port of Palermo when I spotted the submarine’s black tower off in the horizon. I imagined they were using me as target practice, but what they didn’t realize it was my heart they were shooting at with their fake torpedoes.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy The Mental Hygientist for Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy The Mental Hygientist for Kindle
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Barbary Apes
By Scott Dodgson
I had made a deal with Janice that I would take her as far as Gibraltar. After a night of fitful sleep, I awoke in a fog as thick as the fog covering the great rock of Gibraltar. I would bid her farewell after my coffee and get going after one more night of rest. My yacht was as damp as a wet shoe. Remember this is the first week in May and spring temperatures are still a little fickle. This morning was cold and damp. I called to Janice. There was no answer. After the last four days I wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. I opened her cabin door. She wasn’t there, but the pungent smell of urine was. She wet my bed! Just as my brain started to process the situation she stumbled down the companion way drunk. “You pissed on my bed!” I screamed. I was completely unhinged with anger. I demanded her to pack her belongings and get the hell off my boat. She refused. She claimed to have the right to stay on the boat as long as she wanted. Without saying another word I walked off my boat and directly to the small police office at the end of the dock. The police officers were very kind. I showed them my documents, which proved I was in fact the owner and captain of the boat certifying I had the right to throw her sorry drunk ass of my boat. A few minutes later after some yelling and screaming all from Janice the Bobbies escorted her off the boat to the station. I was free of her drunkenness. I was free from the demons and anger. I was alone and relieved. There is a part of me that felt bad about kicking her off the boat. A note about kicking crew off your vessel: International law states that a captain must provide travel and expenses back to the crew member’s country of origin. I should have kicked her off in the Azores, but giving her a second chance and considering the cost of flying her back to England with expenses Gibraltar made sense since it is British.
After spending the morning doing laundry, washing the bed covers and mattress, inspecting the vessel from top to bottom, I changed clothes and caught a taxi up to the top of the rock. If you visit I recommend taking a taxi up and walking back down through the gardens and parks. I looked West toward Sicily. Wandering through the caves and tunnels of the rock is an amazing experience. The thousands of hours spent chipping away at solid rock to make an impenetrable fortress is impressive. I watched the Barbary apes scurry around the tourists leaping from rock to rock chiding us. They took nuts from the hands of children. The fought for position to get the next handout. Some seemed disinterested and preferred to sit and preen themselves. A small microcosm of social interaction applicable to both man and ape, I couldn’t help equating them to my last crew. Cruel? Only to the apes by comparison. I strolled down the rock as so many captains before me have and went to dinner at the Rock Hotel. Built in 1932 by the Marquis of Bute the Rib Room restaurant is a great place to shake off the brutality of long distance, with its genteel service from a by-gone era, sweeping views across Gibraltar Bay, the Spanish mainland and Morocco’s Rif mountains the food is five star. I can’t imagine a better place to refocus and reenergize. In the morning I would leave this very interesting place and heading to Palermo where I would rejoin my girlfriend/chef for the remainder of the journey to Greece.
http://www.rockhotelgibraltar.com/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy the Mental Hygientist for Kindle
www.gibraltar.com
I had made a deal with Janice that I would take her as far as Gibraltar. After a night of fitful sleep, I awoke in a fog as thick as the fog covering the great rock of Gibraltar. I would bid her farewell after my coffee and get going after one more night of rest. My yacht was as damp as a wet shoe. Remember this is the first week in May and spring temperatures are still a little fickle. This morning was cold and damp. I called to Janice. There was no answer. After the last four days I wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. I opened her cabin door. She wasn’t there, but the pungent smell of urine was. She wet my bed! Just as my brain started to process the situation she stumbled down the companion way drunk. “You pissed on my bed!” I screamed. I was completely unhinged with anger. I demanded her to pack her belongings and get the hell off my boat. She refused. She claimed to have the right to stay on the boat as long as she wanted. Without saying another word I walked off my boat and directly to the small police office at the end of the dock. The police officers were very kind. I showed them my documents, which proved I was in fact the owner and captain of the boat certifying I had the right to throw her sorry drunk ass of my boat. A few minutes later after some yelling and screaming all from Janice the Bobbies escorted her off the boat to the station. I was free of her drunkenness. I was free from the demons and anger. I was alone and relieved. There is a part of me that felt bad about kicking her off the boat. A note about kicking crew off your vessel: International law states that a captain must provide travel and expenses back to the crew member’s country of origin. I should have kicked her off in the Azores, but giving her a second chance and considering the cost of flying her back to England with expenses Gibraltar made sense since it is British.
After spending the morning doing laundry, washing the bed covers and mattress, inspecting the vessel from top to bottom, I changed clothes and caught a taxi up to the top of the rock. If you visit I recommend taking a taxi up and walking back down through the gardens and parks. I looked West toward Sicily. Wandering through the caves and tunnels of the rock is an amazing experience. The thousands of hours spent chipping away at solid rock to make an impenetrable fortress is impressive. I watched the Barbary apes scurry around the tourists leaping from rock to rock chiding us. They took nuts from the hands of children. The fought for position to get the next handout. Some seemed disinterested and preferred to sit and preen themselves. A small microcosm of social interaction applicable to both man and ape, I couldn’t help equating them to my last crew. Cruel? Only to the apes by comparison. I strolled down the rock as so many captains before me have and went to dinner at the Rock Hotel. Built in 1932 by the Marquis of Bute the Rib Room restaurant is a great place to shake off the brutality of long distance, with its genteel service from a by-gone era, sweeping views across Gibraltar Bay, the Spanish mainland and Morocco’s Rif mountains the food is five star. I can’t imagine a better place to refocus and reenergize. In the morning I would leave this very interesting place and heading to Palermo where I would rejoin my girlfriend/chef for the remainder of the journey to Greece.
http://www.rockhotelgibraltar.com/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy the Mental Hygientist for Kindle
www.gibraltar.com
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Square Waves
I was reminded yesterday by my good friend and drinking buddy, Steve Heller to keep the audience in mind. For those who are just joining me on this journey, my journey began in Trinidad where I built a new bow sprit from a massive teak log. Under the pressure of a strict schedule to cross the Atlantic to Rhodes Greece where I am to pick up a charter for a very lucrative three week cruise along the Turkish coast I’ve picked a lousy crew who abandoned me in Horta, Azores after a rather difficult crossing leaving me alone with a sixty-five year old alcoholic woman who I have contemplated killing. You find me thirty miles outside the Straits of Gibraltar plowing into a force ten gale. My drunken crew member is locked in her cabin.
My CT 72 is motoring directly into a fifty mile an hour wind under a high sky and blinding sunshine. The coast of Spain lies to port and Morocco lies to starboard. The straits are crowded with container ships and massive super tankers rushing out of the Med no one seems to be going into the Med except me. Timing the tides after a long journey of three days is generally hit and miss. A couple of hours either way and you could be gliding effortlessly with a five to eight knot current or as I am doing bucking a five knot current. I entered a transition point between the Atlantic and its long smooth swells and the Med with its short choppy waves. The waves in the Med are square and generally there is a shorter distance between them. Each wave is shaped like a wall that rushes toward the boat slamming into the bow with great and disturbing force. The yacht rose and fell between the waves with such force and speed I felt weightless. Crashing down the bottom of the waves was enough to buckle my knees every nine to ten seconds. The rigging slackened and shook. The mast waved like a wet noodle at the sky. My sturdy bow sprit dug into the ocean and tossed hundred of gallons of water over the yacht. At times it appeared that my yacht was totally submerged. The scuppers full of racing sea water pouring over the cap rails. At the helm I stood in a constant foot of water. I had donned my snorkel mask so I could at least see. The pummeling wind, the sting of spray and the bite of salt on my skin kept me alert. It took eleven hours to travel twenty miles with the motor racing at top speed. And then around four o’clock in the afternoon someone turned off the wind and told the sea to quiet down all seemingly within minutes. I was officially in the Med.
I went into the customs office after docking wet, tired and very proud I had made it through. The custom’s officer asked for my papers. When he read I had come for the Azores, he dryly commented, “Congratulations you have just sailed through a force ten gale. Welcome to Gibraltar.”
Running head long into walls of square waves is to be avoided. Some fool once said adversity measures character, after this trip I preferred to measure my character by the shot glass. Thanks Steve.
Buy The Mental Hygientist
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
My CT 72 is motoring directly into a fifty mile an hour wind under a high sky and blinding sunshine. The coast of Spain lies to port and Morocco lies to starboard. The straits are crowded with container ships and massive super tankers rushing out of the Med no one seems to be going into the Med except me. Timing the tides after a long journey of three days is generally hit and miss. A couple of hours either way and you could be gliding effortlessly with a five to eight knot current or as I am doing bucking a five knot current. I entered a transition point between the Atlantic and its long smooth swells and the Med with its short choppy waves. The waves in the Med are square and generally there is a shorter distance between them. Each wave is shaped like a wall that rushes toward the boat slamming into the bow with great and disturbing force. The yacht rose and fell between the waves with such force and speed I felt weightless. Crashing down the bottom of the waves was enough to buckle my knees every nine to ten seconds. The rigging slackened and shook. The mast waved like a wet noodle at the sky. My sturdy bow sprit dug into the ocean and tossed hundred of gallons of water over the yacht. At times it appeared that my yacht was totally submerged. The scuppers full of racing sea water pouring over the cap rails. At the helm I stood in a constant foot of water. I had donned my snorkel mask so I could at least see. The pummeling wind, the sting of spray and the bite of salt on my skin kept me alert. It took eleven hours to travel twenty miles with the motor racing at top speed. And then around four o’clock in the afternoon someone turned off the wind and told the sea to quiet down all seemingly within minutes. I was officially in the Med.
I went into the customs office after docking wet, tired and very proud I had made it through. The custom’s officer asked for my papers. When he read I had come for the Azores, he dryly commented, “Congratulations you have just sailed through a force ten gale. Welcome to Gibraltar.”
Running head long into walls of square waves is to be avoided. Some fool once said adversity measures character, after this trip I preferred to measure my character by the shot glass. Thanks Steve.
Buy The Mental Hygientist
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Saturday, May 1, 2010
No Heavy Lifting
By Scott Dodgson
I have had couple questions about my blog. Is it an excerpt from a book? Did the events actually happen? The answers are no and yes. I write a couple thousand words of prose every day. Also, I work on my screenplays and plays. At this time not including the blog Sailor on Horseback which I produce about four a week, I’m finishing a screenplay “The Chinese Box” for a German production company and a play “Homeless in America” for a New York Theater Producer. I am about to take on a MOW, movie of the week script for a client. In two weeks I’ll be revising a screenplay I wrote last month “Actor Adictus” for production. To steal a quote from JJ Abrams “The good news is I write fast. The bad news is I write fast.”
Another question is am I afraid I will burn out? No. Writing requires no heavy lifting, sanding, shoveling, although some readers may perceive that is all I’m doing (Ex-wives fall into this category), knuckle knocking or walking long distances. It does require a thick skin. I reference the film industry for skin thickening as your critics are the most likely the least talented and most powerful.
How can I move between different forms so easily? The answer is I didn’t fall asleep in English class. The first choice to make is about structure. What structure will best suit the story? Screenplays have taught me a lot about structure. I have a defined number of pages, 120 max. I usually have a budget in mind. I also have an idea of the market I want to sell. Once I have decided what seems the best for the story I have in mind I let the characters tell the story and generally they get it right without much interference from me. Plays are a little different. Plays are dialogue driven. I interviewed Edward Albee a long time ago while we were walking around an art gallery. He would look at a painting and ask me what I thought. I didn’t know anything about art, so my answers were short. “I like this one.” “That’s okay.” He would frown or shake his head no. I felt as though the hour we spent together as a one act play between a bitchy master and naïve student. When we were about to part ways I said, “You know I get looking at art as this referential experience to life and beauty, but self indulgent crap leaves me cold.” He smiled broadly. He leaned in close and said, “It’s a great subject for a play.” One feeling, one point of view of a moment in time, one play waiting to be written, Mr. Albee showed me how to think about playwriting.
Where does the story telling come from? Family and in particular my Uncle Willard could start a story Friday evening and keep you mesmerized until Sunday afternoon. He had all the prerequisites, rich history of experience and an innate pace of revelation. I include the long hours of listening to Louis Malle, James Dickey and other men of less repute who could spin a yarn over beer and cigarettes.
So that’s writing for me.
I have had couple questions about my blog. Is it an excerpt from a book? Did the events actually happen? The answers are no and yes. I write a couple thousand words of prose every day. Also, I work on my screenplays and plays. At this time not including the blog Sailor on Horseback which I produce about four a week, I’m finishing a screenplay “The Chinese Box” for a German production company and a play “Homeless in America” for a New York Theater Producer. I am about to take on a MOW, movie of the week script for a client. In two weeks I’ll be revising a screenplay I wrote last month “Actor Adictus” for production. To steal a quote from JJ Abrams “The good news is I write fast. The bad news is I write fast.”
Another question is am I afraid I will burn out? No. Writing requires no heavy lifting, sanding, shoveling, although some readers may perceive that is all I’m doing (Ex-wives fall into this category), knuckle knocking or walking long distances. It does require a thick skin. I reference the film industry for skin thickening as your critics are the most likely the least talented and most powerful.
How can I move between different forms so easily? The answer is I didn’t fall asleep in English class. The first choice to make is about structure. What structure will best suit the story? Screenplays have taught me a lot about structure. I have a defined number of pages, 120 max. I usually have a budget in mind. I also have an idea of the market I want to sell. Once I have decided what seems the best for the story I have in mind I let the characters tell the story and generally they get it right without much interference from me. Plays are a little different. Plays are dialogue driven. I interviewed Edward Albee a long time ago while we were walking around an art gallery. He would look at a painting and ask me what I thought. I didn’t know anything about art, so my answers were short. “I like this one.” “That’s okay.” He would frown or shake his head no. I felt as though the hour we spent together as a one act play between a bitchy master and naïve student. When we were about to part ways I said, “You know I get looking at art as this referential experience to life and beauty, but self indulgent crap leaves me cold.” He smiled broadly. He leaned in close and said, “It’s a great subject for a play.” One feeling, one point of view of a moment in time, one play waiting to be written, Mr. Albee showed me how to think about playwriting.
Where does the story telling come from? Family and in particular my Uncle Willard could start a story Friday evening and keep you mesmerized until Sunday afternoon. He had all the prerequisites, rich history of experience and an innate pace of revelation. I include the long hours of listening to Louis Malle, James Dickey and other men of less repute who could spin a yarn over beer and cigarettes.
So that’s writing for me.
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